A Treat Turns Trics

"Nooooo . . .!"

Michi Nguyen dashed to the bathroom and threw open the door. There, sitting on the commode still wet from her shower and sobbing her eyes out was her roommate Tamika.

"Tami, what's wrong?"

Still blubbering, the dark-skinned girl pointed wordlessly to the inside of the bathtub. Michi looked down inside to see the last of Tamika's body hair dissolve and disappear down the drain.

"I don't—want to be—a nymph!" Tami's face was tragic. Her shoulders shook with the emotion.

"What? How? Tami, when did you sleep with some satyr-guy? I know you never wanted to transform and you've always been so careful." She handed the stricken sophomore another bath towel and knelt down to look her in the eyes.

"It—it must—it must have been at the party at the frat house Saturday night. I drank too much and must have gotten laid but I don't remember who by or how. This was never supposed to happen. I wanted to stay normal and go into politics. My life is totally ruined now. There's no way any—

placidly compliant

" she spat the words out, "woman can get elected. Her opponent would drag her through the gutter. She couldn't even have a life after a campaign like that." And at that point Tamika began to howl again, her towering grief and horror a monument to self-disgust.

Helping her roommate to her feet and out of the room, Michi guided her to the living room sofa, sat her down and then cradled her in both arms.

"Tami, Tami," the slighter girl rocked back and forth holding the other tightly, "that doesn't have to be so. As fast as the flukes are spreading through the community by the time you're ready to run—why we'd probably be a majority and ready for one of our own to represent us. Just move back here next to Lindsey and stay active in the local town and gown. With Provost Estevez and the local civic leaders on your side you'll be a shoe-in—at least eventually. Besides, I keep telling you. Being a nymph is fun."

Tamika raised her head and glared at Michi. "That's your opinion. You've always been a party animal, even before Everett got in your pants and turned you into a—a toygirl!"

Michi grinned. "Did he ever! I'd never seen a real-life cock that fat on a guy before then and when he stuck that monster inside me? Rrroarr! And now I find the world is full of them."

"And so are you! I mean—to each her own, girl, but sex wasn't supposed to be that big a part of my life."

Michi grew thoughtful. "Tami, it doesn't

have

to be, even as a nymph. When I got made into one, I went from tiny miss Asian chick to the biggest boobs in Little Saigon. No way was I gonna be able to hide that. But you're already plenty stacked. I'll bet you won't even change a bra size. So if the guy who got you doesn't remember any better than you do, and he probably doesn't, we can just go on as before. Don't hang around with nothing to do and watch out for that cinnamon and nutmeg smell. Just make it a point to get up and leave fast if you start to feel horny for no good reason. Compliant isn't the same as enslaved, yanno."

*****

Michi's prediction seemed spot on. Unless one saw her naked, there really was no way anyone could tell Tami had been transformed into a nymph. As she learned to control her pheromones, she kept them suppressed and staying on the lookout for bearded and hairy men who might try and breathe in her direction she was able to maintain the fiction that she was still a 'normal' human.

In the privacy of her own head, Michi thought it was a terrible waste. What good was it being female if you couldn't attract males the way flowers attracted bees? For her part the knowledge that she was immune to any and all venereal diseases and could only get pregnant if she chose to was the greatest thing that could have happened. It never occurred to the little Vietnamese-American that she might feel that way because of what a whole bunch of genetically modified

Trematoda

flukes were pumping into her bloodstream.

Then one night Michi lay in bed between the chairman of the Classics department and her husband. Dr. Tripodes had spent the last couple of weeks looking over her class in Elementary Greek. She was, to be blunt about it, looking for an especially toothsome young lady to act as a birthday present for Mr. Tripodes and eventually decided that something Asian was just the ticket. Under the influence of the professor's skillfully applied pheromones, Michi thought about it for only a few minutes. Even in her sexually enhanced condition she'd never been three-to-the-bed before and the idea of being tied down next to Dr. T while Mr. T switched from one woman to the other excited her.

After the mini-orgy was over, Michi dreamily told the couple how grateful she was for the invitation and how much fun she'd had. Unfortunately, that was when she expressed her opinion of how foolish her roommate was being.

Dr. Tripodes pressed her collection of mature curves against the girl's back and murmured in her ear. "How's that again, Michi? Tamika has been transformed and refuses to accept the fact? How silly of her! Why would anyone forego our voluptuous life just so she might have a better chance of being elected? How could it be more fun to use the law to push people around than to regularly push back against one physically—or two, of course? Really, the girl needs educating. What do you think, Niko?"

Niko Tripodes stroked each fork of his beard in turn, thoughtfully. Then he caressed Michi's long black hair and pulled her face deeper into the iron grey matt on his chest. "I think we have to approach this very carefully, my love. There are grave ethical questions involved. Refusing pleasure is no sin. A great deal of the writing you study so assiduously maintains that it is, in fact, a virtue. Neither of us agrees, obviously, and neither does our little darling here. But I, for one, would be loathe to try and forcibly overcome Tami's inhibitions."

Martha Tripodes ran her hand down Michi's side and squeezed the well-toned bottom it ran to. "Not forcibly, Niko, absolutely not! However, I rather suspect that temptation, properly and frequently applied, might just wear down her resistance. I shall bring the subject to some—appropriate authority."

*****

The following Tuesday afternoon, Dr. William Gooding opened a fresh box of Kleenex and handed it to a sniffling Tamika Washington. As her academic advisor he was ideal. A gentleman to the core and of utmost ethical probity Dr. Tripodes knew that Tami trusted him completely and was the best person on the faculty to counsel the girl.

"So, Ms. Washington, you really have no idea who you contracted the

Trematoda

from? The college can open an investigation with the fraternity in question and find out."

Tamika shook her head and blew her nose. "What difference would it make? It can't be reversed and neither of us was sober so there really wasn't any coercion involved. I made a mistake, a big one. It could have been worse. I might have contracted HIV instead of the fluke. At least this way I'm actually healthier than I was before and have more control over part of my life, not less. It's just that—I hoped to run for governor someday, Dr. Gooding. Who's going to vote for a—well, a mythical being?"

Dr. Gooding sucked on his pencil. "Well, at the present estimated rate of spread the electorate will soon be hard pressed to find anyone to vote for who isn't. This GM

Trematoda

has finally come to the attention of the CDC but they can't for the life of them decide what to do about it. It doesn't inconvenience anyone who contracts it, really, and wherever it spreads the rate of sexually transmitted disease plummets. Further, homicide, suicide and spousal abuse also seem to dissipate like the mist. So at present there is no research into a 'cure', if that's what it should be called, and centers of infection keep popping up and expanding worldwide. I really want to see what happens when this hits the Middle East."

"You-you really think so? I mean, it's not like I'm going to start throwing myself into orgies or anything. It's just . . . self-control was a lot easier when I didn't have to be constantly alert for the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. I'm even afraid to eat pumpkin pie."

The professor leaned back in his swivel chair and steepled his fingers in front of his immaculate Van Dyke. "Tamika, I'm not about to attempt to advise you on your sexuality. Anything I say will be tainted by the fact that I've been a satyr for nearly a year now and it would give the appearance of being self-serving if I said something like 'Oh, just do it!' But I will say that I believe your fears that your new condition will affect your political ambitions are overstated. You aren't even twenty yet. By the time you are in a position to run for office you will be around forty. In twenty years the world will have changed a lot."

"Thank-you, Dr. Gooding. I'm going to go home and think about this."

*****

When Tamika returned to the apartment Michi's bedroom door was shut but her happy moans and chirps along with the thumping of the headboard against the wall told a story better than words. Little Toygirl was at it again, cheerfully submitting to any man that took a fancy to her.

And was that so bad? Tamika pondered in the shower and as she puffed out her hair into a retro-stylish Afro in front of her full length bedroom mirror. It had been two months since she had suddenly become smooth and bare. Now her skin glowed with mahogany radiance and while she hadn't gotten any bigger across the chest her breasts were noticeably firmer and higher than before. She looked closer. Good grief, her ears were starting to get pointed. She hadn't ever noticed that on anyone before. Pushing her lower lip slightly, she gave the mirror a sultry look and curved her body into the classic 'S' bend found on sculpture worldwide. Holding her towel by one corner she let it drape languidly down one thigh.

Girl, you really are hot, you know.

The commotion across the hall had died down. No doubt Michi was curled up next to whatever man she had entertained, probably with her head on his chest and a huge smile across her face. Tami reflected that her current emotions were probably influenced by the pheromones that had leaked around the closed door.

If I walked in there right now, I'd probably try and rape them both

. She shut her own bedroom door more tightly and pushed a rolled up bathrobe across the bottom. Opening the window she hoped to air the place out and bring herself back to normal.

At least as normal as a newly transformed nymph can be.

On impulse she slipped into the stretchy jumpsuit she usually reserved for sleeping when the weather turned cold. Pushing her feet into slippers Tami set her jaw and marched out of her room and out of the apartment.

I'm going for a walk in the garden. And when I get there, I'm going naked. I'll dance in the moonlight to my own finger cymbals and if some horny guy shows up—well, whatever happens, happens!

*****

Omar Asad lovingly cleaned and dried his oboe and packed it up. For the thousandth time he thanked his lucky stars. American college music departments could never get enough oboists for their orchestras and freely handed out scholarships to almost any competent musician who could manage double reeds. Even an impoverished Syrian refugee could study at a good school in modest comfort if he could do justice to Vaughn Williams'

Concerto for Oboe and Strings

. Omar did miss playing the traditional music of home, especially when his sisters danced. Still, life could be a lot worse, he thought. Maybe tonight he would curl up on his bed and reminisce with some

beledi.

As he crossed the Lindsey College main quad toward his dormitory, he passed the gate to the ornamental garden that was the campus' pride and joy. A faint sound made him freeze in his tracks. Someone was beating out a traditional rhythm on finger cymbals, he could swear it. Intrigued and curious, Omar crept down the gravel walkway following the music. As he approached the central green, a full moon rose over the trees and gave light to a scene that stunned him. There, by herself and totally naked was a girl dancing. Oblivious to his presence she shimmied and swayed in a way he hadn't seen since he left Baghdad. At first he was offended by such blatant sensuality but then it occurred to the young Arab that this dark-skinned nymph was really very good. What she needed, though, was proper music. Crouching down in a shadow, he opened the case, assembled his oboe and began to accompany her.

The oboe's soft wail eased into Tami's consciousness. She had an accompanist! Turning to face Omar, she saw he was alone. Hmm, not only an accompanist but an audience. She danced closer and more voluptuously. For some reason, tonight she thought a man would be fun. That hadn't happened is such a long time—she concentrated on the feeling. Somewhere in her endocrine system, glands went to work building up pheromones. Unconsciously, Tami danced upwind of the young man and exhaled, giving him a strong dose.

Omar skipped a beat as his concentration wandered away from the music and more to the girl. She smiled at him with her eyelids lowered. Turning around she leered at him over one shoulder.

"You want me?" she whispered, "Then you'll have to catch me!" and sprinted away.

Omar rose intending to run her down but stopped in his tracks. He looked down. Oh, no! He'd just dropped the oboe carelessly on the grass. Fortunately it was undamaged but he quickly went down on one knee to retrieve it. Tami looked back from around a lilac, expecting to see the young man pounding after her and was amazed to see that instead he was disassembling his instrument and lovingly packing it away in its case. Standing up he looked in her direction. With clenched jaw and tears trickling down his cheek, Omar walked away, back to his dorm.

Tami padded slowly back to where she'd left her clothing. He wanted her. She knew he did but he'd packed up his oboe and gone away. Such self control! She sat down on a bench with both hands over her open mouth. Even with a strong jolt of pheromones the young man (and a handsome one at that) had clenched his teeth and managed to take care of his belongings and go about his way. That oboe must be really important to him.

Hmmm, I'll bet someone in Instrumental Music knows him. I want to meet a man with that much self-discipline.

She sighed. As the hormonal storm left her she ruefully admitted to a feeling of relief. If he could control himself surely she could.

*****

Several nights later Omar shut down his laptop and the e-reader that held his texts. Mathematics weren't the terrible chore some of his classmates thought but they certainly weren't very interesting. And his latest essay for Introductory Media was finished and sent on its way. Now he could relax. With a contented smile he took out his oboe, paused and put it away. Not the oboe tonight, he thought. No, tonight the English horn better fit his mood. He was just getting warmed up with a few runs and finger exercises when there was a knock on his door. A bit surprised, he walked over and opened it. A girl stood in the doorway, dark-skinned in Cleopatra braids. He blinked in confusion and then recognized the vision from the garden.

"Hello—Omar? My—my name is Tamika. I'm a nymph."

"You—you are? Really? I've never met a nymph before; at least I think I haven't. Uh, want to come in?" Omar pulled out the desk chair, brushed off the cookie crumbs and held it for her. When she was seated he curled up on the bed, his

cor anglais

held defensive in front of him.

"I—I want to apologize," Tami began stammering, "for being so mean and teasing you. I've never done that to anyone before. I've only been a nymph for a couple of months and I'm still figuring everything out. And I want to tell you how much I admire your self control. Most guys would have just dropped everything and charged after me but you stopped yourself. That horn must mean a lot to you."

"It's my life. I'm here on a music scholarship. If anything happens to my oboe, I'm out. And I just got this." He held up the English horn with a shy smile. "Ever hear one? It's lower and mellower."

At the sound Tami closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth. The haunting, softly nasal tones made her think of marble halls, an atmosphere of incense and women draped in sheer silk. Once again the

Trematoda

enhanced hormones began to pump into her bloodstream. Helpless in the face of heightened sexual desire, the young Afro felt her thighs weaken and tremble, her belly flush with heat. One small corner of her brain was aware of what was happening but was powerless against the chemical onslaught.

Oh gawd, is this the way Michi feels all the time? A nymph I have become; a nymph I am fated to be.

When he finished, Tami leaned forward, a growl in her throat. "Omar, would you like me to dance for you again? This room is small so I'd be a lot easier to catch." She looked at his startled expression. "I'm a nymph, Omar. I never wanted to be but now I am and there's nothing that can be done. I try to fight it. I try all the time but I know that any man who really wants me will get me. Do you want me? Take me and I'll make you into a satyr, Omar. Do you want to be a satyr?"

"A satyr? A real satyr? You mean, with horns and hooves and everything?" His eyes grew wide with apprehension.

"No, silly, no horns or hooves. But you will get really hairy and your—organs will get really big. All you'll have to do is breathe on girls and they will get hot and wet for you. Do you want that? I can give it to you. Your music has me hot and wet." She stood up and pulled her sweater up over her head to show him her firm, unfettered breasts, the nipples already erect and stiff. Hooking her thumbs into her waistband, she pushed and the rest of her clothes dropped to the floor. She reached into her purse and took out the finger symbols. "Play for me, Omar. Let me dance for you." She blew a breathy kiss in his direction.

Mesmerized by her pheromones, Omar lifted the reed to his lips and took a deep breath. What came out told of heat and palms, oases flowing with springs and flowers heavy with scent. Tami danced in a cloud of cinnamon and nutmeg that flowed into Omar's lungs and directly to the oldest part of his brain. His face grew hot and he could feel his cock stiffen. She swayed and gazed at him, her eyelids half closed, her mouth barely open. Overcome by her own sexuality, Tami murmured, "Come to me Omar. Come and use me, Omar. Make me yours and I will make you something else."

Unable to resist, Omar laid the instrument aside. His eyes glazed with lust he threw his shirt off and almost tore the buttons out of his Levi's. Rampant and harder than he ever remembered being, he grabbed Tami by the waist and pulled her against his body, his tongue driving into her mouth, his fingers pressed hard into her buttocks.

Aflame with desire, Tami melted against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and one leg around his waist. Rising up on tiptoes she rubbed her swollen, slippery sex against him. "Throw me down, Omar," she whispered, "take me; take me hard. I need you inside me, Omar. Once you're in me you can't go back. In me once and you'll be in me again and again. Ravish me, my stallion. Make me scream!"

In an instant she was on her back, Omar's weight pressing her into the carpet. With one hand in her hair, the other squeezed her breast, the thumb flicking her stiff, dark nipple. She moaned and reached down. Grabbing his stiff manhood she pulled to the wet opening to her pussy and immediately he drove deep within her.

"Yesssssssss! Now, fuck me man, fuck me! Gawd I can hardly wait until you're remade. Fuck me harder, Oman, faster!"